35. Ryan

Our car sliced through the night, the buildings of Bridgetown growing denser as we drew closer to its heart. Derek's eyes had remained glued to his phone screen for the last ten minutes, his fingers a flurry of movement. The silence hung heavy, punctuated only by the quiet hum of the engine and Derek's intermittent murmurs as he dug deeper.

Finally, his phone beeped, and Derek exhaled, glancing at me with a spark of triumph in his eyes. "Found him," he declared. "Name's Eddie Keller. Works at the local sawmill. Apparently, he's also a regular at a dive bar called ‘The Black Hound.'"

"Guess we're going for a drink, then," I said, steering the car toward our new destination.

Nestled in the outskirts of Bridgetown Pack territory, The Black Hound was a gritty bar with grimy windows. This was not one of the approved places in town that tourists were encouraged to visit. This was a place for those werewolves too real for the tourists to see. The outside of the bar was dimly lit by a neon sign of a huge black dog. I could see silhouettes of men and women through the glass. The place was busy tonight.

As I parked the car, the raw scent of a rival Pack filled my nostrils. No way we could go in there and talk to Keller without word getting back to Michael.

"We wait. He has to leave at some point. We'll follow him home and talk there."

Three hours later, under the dim, scattered lights of the parking lot, the bar's door swung open. A man of wiry build with closely cropped sandy hair stumbled out into the night. He was wearing worn jeans that had seen better days and an old T-shirt that read, "Hell yeah!"

Derek's eyes narrowed in on him. "That's him," he affirmed in a low voice, his gaze trailing Eddie as he stumbled toward a beat-up Chevrolet.

We shadowed Eddie through the streets of Bridgetown. The human tourists were still out and about, sampling the Shifter nightlife, at least the one that Michael and Camile wanted them to see. We headed into the suburbs, and then the houses gradually thinned out, replaced by an array of trailers. Eddie stopped in front of a small trailer with a metal exterior, rust creeping up along its edges. It had a small yard out front, unkempt and dotted with assorted debris. A single wooden chair sat on a makeshift porch alongside a battered cooler. No lights were on inside.

"According to my research, this is his home," Derek whispered.

"Anyone live here with him?"

Derek shook his head. "His records have him living alone."

As Keller stumbled inside his trailer, I nodded to Derek. This was it. We slipped out of the car and circled the trailer. There were no exits around the back, and the windows looked too narrow for even someone with Eddie's frame to fit out of. The place smelled of werewolf, old, rusted metal, and greasy food.

Derek knocked at the door.

"Who's there?" Eddie's voice was gruff and defensive.

"We just want to talk, Eddie," Derek responded, his tone carefully neutral.

Silence. The door creaked open a fraction, a suspicious gaze peering at us through the gap. "Don't know you. Fuck off."

"We believe you have information that we'd be keen to hear," I interjected, holding up a wad of cash. Eddie's eyes flickered between us and the cash before they narrowed.

"Nah, ain't interested."

Before he could close the door, I moved. I was inside his trailer before he had time to think. I grabbed his arm and twisted. His yelp of pain echoed through the trailer, and I could see fear creep into his eyes.

"Alright! Alright! I'll talk," Eddie wheezed, looking at the ground and trying to make himself appear smaller.

I let go of him. Eddie, wincing from the pain, held his arm awkwardly.

"We want to know about the murders. What exactly did you see?"

"Alright," he repeated, his breath reeking of alcohol. "I… I don't remember much about that night. I was drunk. Can't even remember how I got back home."

Derek glanced at me. I shook my head. I was going to let Eddie talk; we needed him to tell us everything.

"I… I was up there ‘coz…" Eddie trailed off, grimacing. "I was meeting someone. A guy who sells me… stuff. You know, out of town, where no one looks."

There were all kinds of transactions happening where the road led into the forest marking the boundary between our territories. Transactions best kept away from prying eyes. That explained why Paul and Kaz were there, though.

"Did you know the victims?" I pressed, my voice steady.

"Kaz and Paul? Sure, I knew them. They were into some heavy stuff, man. Selling drugs and shit. They said they had the good stuff, you know, the stuff that works on Shifters."

I frowned. Alcohol worked on Shifters just fine. Drugs were more hit-and-miss. Painkillers took the edge off. Antibiotics were rarely needed, given our healing capabilities. Recreational drugs, though, could either make us feel like we were flying or slide right off us with no effect. Often, the reaction you had was individual—a drug that worked for your sister might do nothing for you. There had been rumors lately, though, of a new drug on the scene, one that guaranteed a reaction from every Shifter. Theriothiamine, or "ripple," as it was known on the streets, was supposed to be highly addictive for Shifters. The southern conclave cities were reporting dangerous side effects and some deaths associated with it. I hadn't thought that ripple had reached the Three Rivers yet, but if what Keller was saying was true, then it was already here.

"Did you see the murders, Eddie?"

He shook his head. "No. I heard some noises, though. Struggles, you know. Screams. Then someone running away. Fast."

His eyes look haunted for a moment.

"So, you didn't actually see Carson Hodges at the scene?" I nudged.

Eddie shrugged. "Told you, man, I was drunk. All I remember is some figure bolting away. I reported it like I'm supposed to. Called it in to the voicemail."

I looked at Derek.

"They have a hotline here for Bridgetown members to report anything that might cast an unfavorable light on the Shifter community. It means they can keep that stuff away from the human tourists with their pockets full of money."

Unfavorable light? Yeah, I guess two men getting their throats torn out would cover that.

"Enforcers came round after," Eddie continued. "They showed me a picture of this Carson guy later, told me it was him."

"But you can't be sure it was him?" Derek questioned, his gaze fixed on Eddie.

Eddie swallowed hard, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. "No, I… I can't. I just… I just said what they told me to say."

"Why?" I asked.

"I don't know, do I? They… they offered me money to say it was Carson. A lot of it."

"Money?" My voice turned dangerous. Keller had set up Carson to be killed for fucking money.

Eddie dropped his eyes and nodded.

"Who did you really see?"

"I don't know, I told you that. But here, look, whoever was there, they dropped this." Eddie shuffled over to his wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar note. "It must have slipped outta his pocket when he… you know."

When he killed the men. I took the note from Eddie and sniffed it. There was a blend of scents on there, Eddie's scent being the strongest. But scents on bank notes tended to stay for a long time. People touched the notes with their fingertips, transferring their pheromones onto the paper. They soaked in, layer after layer of everyday emotions, of fears, joys, hunger, excitement, and even desire. I took a moment to sort through the smells.

"Brock Madden."

"Brock?" Derek turned to me. "You sure?"

I nodded. We were werewolves; we could remember the scents of over a thousand different people.

"There are other scents there as well. No one else I recognize."

"It could be that Brock handled this note in the last few days. It doesn't confirm it was him at the murder scene."

"Yeah, but we need to talk to him."

This time, Derek nodded.

Eddie reached out to take the note back.

"You took this from the scene?" I asked.

"Yeah, man. No one else there needed it."

I looked around at the inside of the trailer. It was the size of a small bedroom, with both living room and kitchen shoved into a single space. Christmas lights from years past hung from the ceiling, their cords exposed and frayed. The furnishings were old, of the kind found in thrift stores. A television set with a black-and-white screen and a single wooden stool in front of it, a few mismatched chairs, and an old, worn couch were all the furniture I could see.

"What did you do with the money the enforcers offered you?" I asked.

"I don't have it yet, man. I gotta wait until the whole thing dies down, don't I? That's just common sense, man," Eddie said, still clutching his arm.

I doubted they were ever going to pay Eddie. He'd probably find himself face-down in the river sometime in the next couple of days. Something like this, they'd tie up all loose ends. My guess? They didn't think we'd make a move so soon and thought they had time to dispose of Eddie.

"The situation dies down, or Carson dies?" Derek asked. His face was blank, but I knew my brother and the hard line of his jaw and the way he held himself told me he wanted to finish the job for the enforcers himself. That Eddie would betray one of his own kind for cash, knowing it was a death sentence, went against everything Derek stood for.

"I don't know, do I? They just told me I had to wait." He stood up and took a step toward Derek. "I need the money, man. You see me living the high life? I gotta start somewhere, man. I gotta start somewhere."

Derek looked at me, and I nodded. We weren't going to get anything else out of Eddie.

"Leave him some cash."

Derek raised his eyebrows at me. I knew he didn't approve. I didn't respond to his look, and Derek pulled out his wallet, throwing a few bills on the floor next to Eddie.

"Thank you," he mumbled as he scrambled to pick up the notes. "I won't tell them that you were here. I promise I won't."

"Use the money to get out of here for a while, Eddie. Those enforcers, they'll be back to make sure you don't ever talk."

I walked out of the trailer. Outside, the trailer park was eerily quiet, the hush of the night broken only by the distant hum of a lone car engine. My wolf's hackles raised in alert. Derek's body stiffened. I scanned the trailer park, my instincts screaming that we weren't alone. I took a step forward and stopped dead. The scent hit me then, strong and familiar.

There, casually leaning against my car as if he had all the time in the world, was Michael, Alpha of the Bridgetown Pack. His broad figure was outlined in the soft moonlight, and his eyes glinted with a predatory gleam.